Most of All
by Desktop Warrior
Summary: In which a dwarf realizes he's not so different after all...and that's why they hate him. SPOILERS for A Clash of Kings.


**Most of All**

_You most of all, my lord._

He forced down another bite of buttered turnip, swallowing painfully as Bywater's words echoed through his head. He didn't have much of an appetite tonight, and he stared with increasing disgust at his supper. The commons would hate him even more than they already did, he thought ruefully, if they knew how richly he ate while they starved. Buttered turnips and asparagus were piled on a small dish, accompanied by freshly baked rolls made with some of the last stores of flour left in the city. On a larger plate was a whole cold capon, glistening with grease. He tore a wing off the capon, imagining Varys' features in the plump bird. A castrated rooster, quite a fitting analogy to the eunuch. Even as he chewed the meat of the wing gingerly, the bird seemed to whisper to him in Varys' voice.

_It is…regrettable, my lord_, it seemed to say in the simpering tones he knew so well. _The people are unhappy, you must understand, as the war has taken its toll on them as well. They are sick, hungry, destitute. They cannot discriminate, and so they express their frustrations without the understanding you or I would have._

"It is true," he muttered before tearing a chunk of bread, which he nibbled. "We are all one to them. The eunuch, the Watch, the Cloaks, my dear sister and nephew…myself." _Myself most of all. The freak. The half-man, as Shagga and the clansmen so delicately phrase it._

_I want to see the little man fly!_ cried a voice from his past. How ironic. He had used his wits to escape certain death at the roof of the world, the only weapon he could use with proficiency. More than proficiency, he reflected; his sharp mind was what had kept him alive, what had made his enemies think twice about the benefit of killing him.

And what had made his family do the same.

It was that, his only weapon, to which he owed his life, that made him who he was. Hated. His nephew was but a boy, as Bywater had reminded him. What say could Joffrey have in the matter? No, it was _he_ who was to blame, _he_ who had appeared with his clansmen and had brought upon the people the horrors of war. Never mind that he had come to maintain order in these troubled times, as directed in his mandate as the King's Hand, never mind that he fulfilled his duty to the best of his abilities. In him, they only saw the schemer, the manipulator, and at the end of it all, was that not what he was? Had he not made deals with a flatterer who stabbed you in the back even as he exulted your praises, and with the very man who had been in the pay of his captor, switching sides for the sake of a few more gold coins? Had he not hired the services of cutthroats and barbarians which were kept from laying waste to the city they were supposed to guard by only the thin promise that they would one day be allowed to settle in fairer lands?

_And I am a monster besides, hideous and misshapen, never forget that._

His lumpy fingers shaking, he set down the fork with a half-eaten turnip on his plate. He'd barely touched his food and yet, he felt bloated, his stomach deeply unsettled. The capon remained, continuing to whisper sweet apologies for the state of affairs, and he pushed the plate away from him.

"Pod!" He roared for his squire as he sat up from the half-barrel he'd been sitting on, drawing himself up to his full height of just under four and a half feet. He did not trust himself to drag out this meal any longer without indisposition. Mercifully, it was not long before Podrick Payne entered his chambers. The quiet, submissive boy cast a momentary glance at the unfinished meal on the table, but made no comment. _Quiet, unobtrusive, doesn't think for himself. That one does things by the book. I envy him. He will never achieve my notoriety._

"Fetch Varys and Bronn for me, boy," he said. Pod replied with a small bow of courtesy and a mumbled, "Yes, m'lord Tyrion." Without another word, the boy went running out, his footsteps echoing as he descended the steps of the tower.

When he was sure the boy was out of earshot, he sat back down on the barrel with a heavy sigh. Why for an instant had he thought he was different from the others? Everyone and their mother claimed they acted for the good of the Realm; it wasn't farfetched to consider that some of them truly believed that in their hearts, that this was not just one more thread in the web of lies they wove. Eddard Stark had believed it, had he not? And look what had become of him. Stark's son believed it, the Baratheon brothers believed it, even Mad Aerys Targaryen. And even his dear nephew probably believed it, in his heart of hearts. What was it that his sister had said? Something like, _in the game of thrones, you win or you die._

Tyrion Lannister was not dead. Yet.

But could he truly say that he had won?

No, that could not be said with any certainty. This game of thrones was still being played, and there were more moves for him to make, which was why he had summoned Varys and Bronn. Allies now, but still players in this game, players who might one day be his enemies. A eunuch and a sellsword. It was their help he would utilize.

For the realm.

Why would he not be hated?

He took one last look out the window, gazing at the endless starry sky, before steeling himself for the coming meeting. The next move in the game.

"I believe," he said softly, "that you may indeed see me fly."


End file.
